


you're the one who made me this way

by pennydown



Category: Venom (Comics), Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: ... sort of, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Shower Sex, these two just have a weird codependent relationship oops.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 13:10:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennydown/pseuds/pennydown
Summary: “Fine, fine,” Eddie’s voice is raspy and broken, and when the symbiote lets up and slides away from his neck he can see pinpricks of popped blood vessels, like huge hickeys, and ignores the jolt of pleasure that gives him. He ignores the heat he feels all over his body, the echo of powerlessness that he felt, and shakes his head. “What do you want from me?”[I want you, Eddie.]





	you're the one who made me this way

**Author's Note:**

> [sweats] we am all horny for venom  
> this is a little freeform- a little based on the comics (specifically the ones where they act more like a couple than anything), a little based on the movie. thanks tom hardy for letting me be goofy as hell
> 
> serious note, eddie's internal monologue/narration gets a little self deprecating, as well as discussing suicide a few times. please be careful!

His apartment is small, the buzzing fluorescent lights coating the entire place in a haze reminiscent of looking through seaglass. Green-blue, blurry, and Eddie blinks away the blur in his eyes to haphazardly toss his keys to the counter-top and stumble to the sink for water.

 ** _Eddie,_**  it purrs, and he can feel it ripple across his stomach, his abs, rippling and shifting and applying pressure like the sweetest pair of hands he’s ever felt. It makes bile rise in his throat, makes him taste a burn, and he swallows back water like a dying man. And, perhaps, he is. Perhaps he will be.

“I never wanted this,” he protests, glancing at the dark bruising on his knuckles, tasting the blood in his mouth, the throb in his lip. It’s true; he only wanted revenge on the man who ruined his life, the object of his thoughts for months, now. He didn’t want to feel the carnivorous urge to rip through flesh and sinew, didn’t want to feel his lips (though, when it had taken its’ full hold, were they really his?) curling into some sort of smile, feeling hot blood splash onto his face and hearing the dull, heavy thud of a skull hitting the ground. His least favourite part was the snap-crack of bones, like a fucking children’s cereal except it made him nauseous. Or, at least, he wanted it to make him nauseous, wanted to reject every part of the symbiote and kill it, somehow, destroy it- but he knew, really, that he never would—

 ** _That’s a lie_ ,** it suggests, not physically speaking but humming in his mind, a secondary track of thought that he could never ignore. **_Eddie, we’re perfect together_**. He feels the symbiote run itself down his arm, paying somewhat special attention to the long, smooth scar running along his forearm, an echo of a suicidal past that never really left him. Eddie sighs, shaking his head, and slams his hands on the counter. He feels himself retch, somewhat pathetically, over the sink, feels himself heave, but he can’t shake the taste of blood on his lips. Blood that wasn’t his own.

“You’re sick, Ed,” he whispers. It would make sense for this to be a severe psychological episode- it wasn’t long after his release from the hospital that the thing bonded with him, smooth and hardly real.

He had flushed his anti-psychotics, watched the bright pills swirl helplessly in the tiny hospital toilet. He wasn’t crazy- at least, he wasn’t at the time, but now… He wasn’t so sure. Now he was a murderer with an apparent taste for decapitation, with an alien slinking around his waist, serpentine and seductive in its suggestions for _more, Eddie, more_.

He doesn’t remember stumbling to the shower until the water is hissing through the shower-head, echoing off of the tiled walls and steaming up the window. He looks in the mirror, staring blankly at his own face that he can hardly recognize. There’s nothing familiar about the nearly swollen-shut black eye he boasts, about his split lip, about the silky stream of bloody saliva that still manages to drip from his lips. He wasn’t supposed to end up here, wasn’t supposed to end up a personal trainer at what could be the worst gym in San Francisco, wasn’t supposed to be a bodybuilder with a masochistic streak. He was supposed to be the most famous journalist in America, was supposed to be famous and successful and normal—not ripping the heads off of junkies who harassed him a little too much outside of the bar.

 ** _Eddie, you think too much_ ,** the symbiote hisses, its’ words so low and soft that it sends a shiver down Eddie’s spine. The symbiote has a siren’s song, has a way of making Eddie bow below it’s words, and it terrifies him.  ** _Eddie, what are you so afraid of?_**

He doesn’t want to answer. Answering it entertains the idea that the alien that had curled itself protectively around every fibre of his being, which was not something Eddie wanted to do. He wasn’t going to admit that he liked the power it brought to him, liked the fear in everyone’s eyes when they became Venom. He wasn’t crazy, but this wasn’t real. He just needed to shower, needed to smoke a joint and fall asleep on the couch, and tomorrow morning he’d realize that someone probably just drugged his drink.

Suddenly, Eddie can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, and the shiny, fluid matter of the symbiote is curling around his throat like a collar, and squeezing, and Eddie’s hands go white-knuckled on the sink as he gasps for air.  ** _Don’t ignore me, Eddie. I can hear you thinking._**

“Let- let _go_ ,” he gasps.

**_Stop ignoring me, Eddie. You were nothing before me. We can be perfect, Eddie. We_ are _perfect_.**

“Fine, fine,” Eddie’s voice is raspy and broken, and when the symbiote lets up and slides away from his neck he can see pinpricks of popped blood vessels, like huge hickeys, and ignores the jolt of pleasure that gives him. He ignores the heat he feels all over his body, the echo of powerlessness that he felt, and shakes his head. “What do you want from me?”

**_I want_ you _, Eddie_.**

Those words, reminiscent of a lover, cause Eddie’s hands to grip the sink once again, staring harder at his reflection until the mirror fogs up and nothing is left but the blurry shapes that make up his silhouette, and the contrast of black slinking down his chest, the symbiote acting like a possessive, sexy girlfriend straight out of a shitty porno, and Eddie grits his teeth. “You have me, remember? You’re part of me.”

**_Not the body, Eddie. I don’t want the body. I can have any body I want. There’s better than yours- I want you, Eddie. Your mind. You understand me. You want revenge._ **

Eddie’s not sure what it is that makes his breath hitch. He’s not sure if it’s the offhand abuse, or the declaration of want, the fact that this miraculous alien with supernatural powers wants to use him as a host. Nope, it’s _definitely_ the latter, Eddie realizes, as another shiver rolls its way down his spine and his breath stutters.

“You’re so _fucked_ , Ed,” he reminds himself, catching his own reflection once more in the mirror after tilting his head backward, like the ecstasy of the symbiote’s words was enough to make his whole body tense like a bowstring. Its words always pulled him taut, had him standing at attention, and he hated to admit it. He was loathe to admit how much he physically needed it, needed it to slither over his skin and press on his muscles in a disgustingly deep pressure.

Through the steam he smells the mildew of his bathroom, kicks off his well-worn boxers, and is reminded of the melancholy mediocrity of his everyday. No wonder he wanted out, he thinks, peering at the tiny window, painted shut by some ignorant, bored hired-hand who didn’t really give a fuck about making sure the interior of his apartment was up to code. It felt like a contrast to his own life- a job he didn’t care about that returned the favour, no close relationships to worry about him or make him feel anything other than numb. His closest friend was the stack of zags on his nightstand, and this particular line of self-deprecation gets the symbiote’s attention.

**_You need me, Eddie. We need each other_.**

It continues to remind him just how badly he needs it as he steps into the shower, the hot water scalding his skin and making each bruise on his sore muscles ache—drawing another shaky, rough breath from his lips. It feels good, draws him back into his body, and he stretches his neck while considering the symbiote’s stance.

“You’re not real,” he suggests, arching his back to try to work out a kink near the base of his spine. He feels the symbiote press on his chest, and he pictures hands, pictures a needy girl standing on her toes in front of him, and he sighs slowly.

**_You and I both know that I’m real, Eddie. Why are you resisting me? We need each other._ **

It shifts its pressure from his chest to his back, his shoulders, and creeps gently up his neck—Eddie gasps, heavy, when it seems to squeeze on his neck, and suddenly his fantasy shifts from a girl- no, now it’s a man, strong and capable but not as stocky as he is, thin and lithe and applying sweet, sweet pressure to his neck. His eyelashes flutter as he realizes who his mystery man looks like, and suddenly his hand slams to the wall.

“How much do you hate Parker,” he asks, for the first time. Since bonding, Eddie’s been aware of the symbiote’s aggressive hatred for the spider, has been well-acquainted with its bloodlust, its need for revenge, though he never asked.

In lieu of an answer, the symbiote flashes images of gore through his mind—of Peter’s mouth hanging open, lip trembling as blood foams from his lips. Of guts in his hands, of red red blood covering Peter’s pale skin, his hands scrambling against Eddie’s shoulders—and oh, _fuck_ , that looks good.

“ _Fuck_.”

**_You want it too, Eddie. You want to ruin him, just like I do_.**

“Fuck,” he repeats, a broken record hitting a groove over and over and over and over, and the symbiote curls around his whole body, stopping just at his neck, stopping just below the constellations of blood vessels that it had left from the last time it paid attention to his neck.

**_Is that a yes_?**

“It’s not a no.”

Under the stream of too-hot water, Eddie runs his hands over his face, then slowly, down his jaw, his fingertips trailing down his neck, his chest, and when they meet with the symbiote, they both feel a ripple of slow, easy pleasure.

 ** _You need me, Eddie. Not just to destroy Peter—but because you need me. You need someone to take care of you_ ,** it purrs, and Eddie hisses a breath through his teeth. **_Let me, Eddie_.**

Eddie realizes just then that he has an awfully hard boner, and there’s a lull in the conversation as the symbiote realizes this, too. Eddie’s going to Hell, most certainly—there’s really no forgiving a man whose dick gets hard thanks to a monster saying his name and reminding him how much he needs it.

**_Well_?**

“You’re the fucking worst,” he mutters, opting to try and ignore the boner in favour of washing his hair, standing with his face under the scalding water and lathering shampoo between his hands, then into his hair. “I’m not jacking off with you here. So you can leave, or I’m just going to stand here and ignore both of you.”

Something in the symbiote—or perhaps Eddie himself—finds that hilarious, and he finds his chest rumbling warmly, a bubbly feeling like champagne dripping down his chest and he finally sighs, slowly, as it speaks to him, voice relaxing every muscle in his body like a sedative.

**_I’m in your head. I know all of your memories. I know what turns you on. It’s not like you and I have borders._ **

“Yeah, but I wish we had borders,” Eddie sighs, frustrated, fumbling with closed eyes for soap to run all over his body, his hands, his face, and shakes his head. His eyes stay closed as he responds, eyebrows pulled into a tight line while he explains. “You could take me to dinner, first. So far, all you seem to do is just… Whatever you want, like I’m the passenger, not the host. You’re a guest, here, you know.”

**_What, you want me to be a guest? Want me, the thing that saved you, the thing that made you so much more than you could’ve hoped to be—you want me to be submissive to what you want, Eddie? You’re lucky I chose you._ **

Eddie sighs, shakily, as it applies steady, hard pressure to his dick, and his hand slams back against the wall. The water streaming down his face drips from his lips, and the breath that he sucks through his teeth is warm with steam. "What are you doing," he deadpans.

**_I want you to like me, Eddie. I want you to trust me. Don't you want me to make_ you _feel good, for once_?**

"For onc- so you _admit_ it!"

 ** _Shut up._**  The pressure is back, and Eddie glances down to see it moving over his dick, like an autonomous pocket pussy or.. Something. And he wonders why it didn't choose a hand, and then it applies a hard pressure, and he stops wondering anything in favour of whining with his head thrown back. The symbiote pauses, curious, and Eddie hates it, so much, for acting smug and serpentine and stupidly sensual. Too much goddamn alliteration. **_What was that_?**

"You're in my head, asshole. You know."

The pressure is back, and this time it's... like, basically fucking itself on his dick, and Eddie's hand clenches into a tight fist. It's been a while since he's gotten laid, that was true- this was just a method of relieving tension, and-

"Holy _shit_ -"

\- the symbiote is playing with his asshole, now. It seems curious, which almost turns him off, but then it's pressing in and Eddie forgets how to think. He didn't usually bottom with dudes, unfortunately. But this feels good, and in a moment of weakness, Eddie leans against the cool tile of the wall, sighing softly. The symbiote's back, pressing to his neck again, hard and sensual and Eddie whines, this time. 

**_Is it good, Eddie_?**

"Jesus, you really ask a lot of questions for someone who can read my _ffffffucking_ thoughts."

 ** _I just like hearing you talk. Your voice is different than your thoughts. Plus, then I can feel your chest rumble_.**  Eddie's expression twists into something of confusion, but the symbiote pulls away from his thigh, curls around it and lifts his leg into the air, supporting his weight against the wall. He's never felt so thankful for the symbiote's total control over its' physical form, as it slowly thickens the tendril in his ass, tightens around his dick. He feels like the symbiote is no longer the slutty partner in a porno, but instead it's him, head resting against the wall, lips hung open with heated sighs escaping his lungs with practically every thrust. It feels good, too good, and Eddie flutters his eyes closed. He hasn't felt this good in a while- and part of him wonders if it's because he hasn't let himself feel good. He wonders if it's because after the various events wherein he ruined his own life, he didn't deserve good things. This train of thought draws him out of his pleasure, and he stares blankly at the tiles. That had to be it. His silence, his pause, however, brings the symbiote to a pause as well. _**Eddie, you're thinking too much,**_ it chides, once again.

"Sorry," he mutters- and then feels foolish for apologizing at all, because what loser apologizes to the parasite inhabiting his body? Or, more accurately, who apologizes to the thing that's fucking him in the ass? Eddie Brock does, apparently, and he raises his hands to scrub at his face, to hide his embarrassment, when a slick, almost-fluid feeling engulfs his wrist and delicately tugs it away from his face, the symbiote sliding between his fingers, and Eddie realizes that it's trying to hold his _hand_. It's coming to a stop, and Eddie frowns. 

_**I have no use in inhabiting someone who is self-destructive.** _

"Yikes." Eddie's being avoidant as always, doesn't want to have a deep emotional conversation with an alien, and instead leans his head against the wall again, closing his eyes. Sensing his resistance, the symbiote slowly begins to move against him again, drawing a content sigh from Eddie's lips. The sigh turns into words before Eddie can really process what's happening, and he finds himself mumbling things he'd never spoken aloud before. "I just want to forget who I am, for a while. I want to forget why I keep fu- _fuh_ \- Jesus, _shit_ , it's hard to talk with you doing that." And, really, who could blame him for developing a stutter while he's being _fucked in the ass_? "I just... Don't want to be me, for a while."

_**We're us, Eddie.** _

"What?"

_**You aren't you. We're us.** _

The symbiote's voice is softer, now, than he's ever heard it, and he realizes that it might actually feel something other than contempt toward him. It makes a sound like it's clicking its tongue, and Eddie raises his eyebrows upon realizing it has scoffed at him. **_Of course I feel something other than contempt, idiot. I like you._**

"You know, your kind words are negated by you- _shit_ \- calling me an idiot. Fuck."

_**Clearly you can't focus. We'll talk about this later.** _

Then Eddie throws his head back as the symbiote seems to decide to slam into him with twice as much effort, and he finds himself letting his mouth hang open in a semi-permanent whine, hand grasping at the wall for purchase. He can feel himself forgetting to think, and instead focusing on simply feeling:

Feeling the symbiote, somehow simultaneously fluid and flesh, warm as hell and inside of him and all over him;

Feeling good, feeling pleasure, for the first time in what feels like years ( _and it wasn't like he hadn't gotten himself off before this, but it's so much different-_ );

Feeling the water running down his eyelashes, hot and steamy and making the air thick, like every breath requires effort, and;

Finally, feeling the symbiote guide his hand to his own dick, a thought flashing through his mind of _I don't know how to do this_ \- and Eddie isn't sure whether that came from him or the symbiote, but at this rate, he doesn't care. His hand wraps around himself and he's pumping his dick, hard and fast, and he's being fucked hard and fast, and he moans. He moans, closes his eyes, and feels himself drool, feels it run down his lips- and, woah, that's a little more than usual. Eddie flutters his eyes open, dazed, and is met with the symbiote's tongue, long and pink and writhing, curling around his jaw and mouth, and suddenly Eddie is coming, coming undone, unraveling, and he practically _wails_ -

\- A few moments later, he can feel the symbiote once again, and realizes that when he came, when he whited out, he couldn't feel it there. He wonders if he came hard enough to really dissociate out of his body, or if-

"Was that as good for you as it was for me?" Nice one, Brock.

_**Your pleasure is mine as well, Eddie.** _

"Which means?"

_**Yes.** _

"Ha-ah. Nice," he mumbles, watching the symbiote curl around his body, lithe and serpentine and when it settles around his shoulders like a pet snake, he can't say he minds. He realizes, now, that the water's run cold, and his water bill's probably going to be fucking ridiculous, so he quietly turns off the taps, quietly steps out and wraps a towel around himself to start drying off, and it's then that the symbiote, apparently content to stay quiet, decides it's time to talk again. 

_**Will it feel like that when we kill Peter Parker?** _

"Jesus- fucking _Christ_ , don't you think about anything else but murder? What about an afterglow, huh? Cuddling?"

_**Well, will it?** _

Eddie sighs, rubbing his temple with his fingers as he meanders to his bedroom, running a hand through his damp hair. "I mean, knowing you, probably. Just... You have to promise me you won't eat him."

_**What?!** _

" _Promise_ me."

_**Ugh. Fine.** _

They continue bickering like that for what feels like hours, even as Eddie rolls a joint and lights up in his bed, closing his eyes with a dopey grin. This is his new normal, and he realizes now that this strange, domestic normal, cohabiting with an alien, might be exactly what he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> title from lauren aquilina's 'psycho'.  
> i didn't edit this as much as i wanted to but i spent too much time writing it and i just need to finish it sorry if it's Bad(TM)!


End file.
